


The Eighth Circle of Hell

by PeregrineBones



Series: Ineffability [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26164351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeregrineBones/pseuds/PeregrineBones
Summary: It isn’t in a demon’s nature to fall in love.......
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffability [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1520459
Kudos: 11





	The Eighth Circle of Hell

Crowley rented the fastest speedboat he could find, and took it out into the bay off Grand Bahama Island. He pressed down on the throttle, pushing the boat to maximum speed, wind in his face, circling back to catch the waves. He looked quite fetching he knew, bare chested, wearing only white shorts and a jaunty cap. And his sunglasses, of course.

It was meant to be fun, but Crowley wasn’t having fun.

After a few hours of non-fun fun he anchored the boat off West End Point. He sat and had a think

Crowley had a big problem. It isn’t in a demon’s nature to fall in love.

But he couldn’t let it go, couldn’t deny it any longer. He had, against his better judgement, against his very nature, fallen in love.

The realization had been coming to him gradually, very gradually, over the past 500 years or so. Not so very long, in the greater scheme of things. It had started with that blasted poet, who became such a big deal later, that William Shakespeare. Aziraphale had really been in love with him, though he wouldn’t admit it. Aziraphale had been taken with his sweeping intellect, his nimble wit. And of course, his handsome face. But Crowley had known. Crowley always knew, pretty much, what Aziraphale was feeling. He wasn’t that hard to read. He wore his heart on his sleeve, as the saying went. If nothing else, the subtle changes of light in the room gave his emotions away.

But - here was the thing - Crowley had minded. Crowley had been jealous. Which, in a demon, is probably as close to love as you can get.

Crowley had a bottle of scotch stowed in the boat. He got it out and watched the sun set and had a drink. Then he had another. The waves lapped gently at the boat. The trade winds blew softly. A school of dolphins swam past, jumping and frolicking in the calm water. The moon rose. The stars wheeled across the sky. The level in the bottle steadily declined. By dawn Crowley was properly pissed. But it hadn’t solved a thing.

He waved his hand, drawing the alcohol out of his body and back into the bottle. Weary but sober he headed the boat back to port. He had a meeting in Hell in a few hours. No point in being late for that.

********

There is a special place in Hell for creative people. The artists and actors, the singers and comedians, the jugglers and jesters. It is an endless room, with a low ceiling, cluttered and airless, receding into the mists of time. The room is filled with desks, and at each desk sits a human soul, working away at a keyboard. The task is data entry, and the data never stops coming. The room echoes with the tapping of many keys.

This room has evolved over the ages. Three thousand years ago, it was filled with the sound of hundreds and hundreds of quill pens, scratching on parchment, tallying heads of cattle and bushels of wheat. But the stuffy and joyless nature of the place has remained unchanged.

Crowley knew that he could never be a proper demon, because he hated this room. Always had. Certain places in Hell, the fiery pits, the torture chambers, the endless mountains where boulders were endlessly pushed upwards, before rolling to the bottom once again - these places had, he felt, a certain medieval charm, a certain style, that he could appreciate, if not actually enjoy. But this airless room, that smelled eternally of farts and hopelessness, had alway given him the heebie jeebies.

He walked through, looking neither right nor left, feeling that uncomfortable tinge of guilt that he always got in this place, because his ideas had contributed to its making. Computers, data entry, menial jobs with low pay and no hope of advancement, these things were his inventions, and the demons of hell had taken enormous, fiendish delight in twisting them to their ends.

Nonetheless, the way to the conference room in the eighth circle of hell was through this room, and Crowley was, unfortunately, running late. It was a routine performance review, and Crowley had nothing to be nervous about. Things had been going exceptionally poorly for the human race, and he had nothing but bad to report. His masters would be pleased, Crowley was sure. Still, it never did to be late. Devils were sticklers for punctuality.

The conference room had a view of the lake of fire, and was a particular favorite of Beezlebub. Crowley slipped into the room, and sat at his place which had been laid out with a notepad, a pen and a plastic bottle of sulfuric acid for his refreshment. Crowley took a sip, and winced. He smoothed his hair, and tried to look as if he had been sitting there attentively from the beginning.

Hastur, his sores oozing pus, flies buzzing about his head, was at the whiteboard. He was going through a tedious presentation on souls tempted - won, lost and indeterminate. Since the Armageddon debacle a few years ago, Hell had finally modernized their methods, Crowley had to give them that. They were all about efficiency these days. Pie charts, graphs, data crunching. He had complained about their archaic approach for years, but he had to say, the meetings had been more interesting in the old days. He stifled a yawn and settled in.

The meeting went on. The news was mostly bad, to the delight of the assembled demons. Pollution was there, and gave a long report on carbon emissions (up) and species diversity (down). Ligur, who had been working on wealth inequality, gave a long report to the glowing approbation of the assembled demons. Crowley stood and reported on the goings on in the Trump administration and the Brexit talks.

“Atrocious,” Beezlebub said, when he had finished. Beezlebub was a small figure and favored the traditional demon look; short horns, red jumpsuit, long tail, black glittery eyes. ”Really, really bad. I must say, Crowley, your work has come a long way.”

Crowley smiled modestly. He wondered if there would be time to stop off for something for dinner. There was a new, high end seafood place that had opened around the corner from Aziraphale’s bookstore. And he knew the angel had a really good bottle of chardonnay he wanted to try. Luckily Aziraphales’s vegetarianism did not include fish.

“Anything else to report?” said Beezlebub, looking about.

“Well actually, your evilness, sir,” said one of the minor demons sitting at the far end of the conference table. “I’ve had a rather odd report from Ireland.”

Crowley’s heart would have sunk, if he’d had a heart.

“I…..” the demon hesitated.

“Out with it, devil,” growled Beezlebub.

“It's about that one,” the demon said, pointing at Crowley.

“What about him?”

“He’s been seen… consorting with an angel, your evilness, sir.”

“An angel?”

“I’ve got a witness,” said the little demon. He waved his hand, and the leprechaun that Crowley had exchanged cell phone numbers with on his holiday in Ireland appeared. He stood in the center of the conference table, looking nervous but unabashed. What was his name? Crowley could not recall.

“You!” said Crowley.

The leprechaun took off his green top hat and bowed deeply. “At yer service, yer devilment, sir,” he said.

“I thought we were friends!” said Crowley.

The leprechaun looked at the ground uncomfortably. “I just thought, yer evilness sir, that there might be something ...untoward, goin’ on. Just thought it best to check it out with the authorities, like.”

“Untoward?” said Hastur with interest, lecherous bastard that he was.

“They was kissing,” said the little green man.

“Really?” said Beezlebub. He also seemed keenly interested in the leprechaun’s story.

“Kissin’ and huggin’ and whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears,” the leprechaun went on, with relish.

“A seduction,” Crowley spoke up. “A seduction, pure and simple. Merely tempting an angel into sin. Surely that is within my scope of practice.”

“Not usually your wheelhouse though, is it?” said Hastur, leering. “You usually go in more for..... politics, technology, road design, that sort of thing.”

Crowley shrugged and tried his very damnedest to look casual. “Well…. An opportunity arose. A little old fashioned tempting. That was my speciality, you know, originally. Don’t forget the apple, now. Not to brag or anything, but that was me. Wouldn't want to get rusty. Never one to pass on an opportunity to tempt an angel into sin, as it were. And that one is teetering I can tell you that. A little more effort and we may have him.” Crowley hoped he sounded convincing. He took another sip from the bottle of acid at his elbow.

Beezlebub looked at him for a long minute but said nothing more.

“If there’s nothing else?” said Crowley standing, He brushed his hands, checked his phone. The tension in the room was palpable. “I do have to be at some Brexit talks in an hour.”

“There’s a new virus in Wuhan,” said Beezlebub in voice like flies buzzing.

“Virus,” said Crowley.

“It has potential,” said Beezlebub, never taking his dark eyes off of Crowley. “Could be quite a force for disruption. Work on it, will you?”

*******

Dusk in Soho, and the streets were slick with rain. Crowley made it to the fish shop before it closed and bought a slab of haddock, shimmering and fresh in its bed of ice. While hurrying through the busy dinner hour streets to Aziraphale’s he spied an old woman, selling flowers in the gloom. Nothing fancy, pink chrysanthemums and daisies, set in old jam jars on a piece of board held up between two buildings. She was dressed in black, a single daisy shining white against the black of her hat, which covered her wiry grey hair. 

“Poor old thing,” he thought. She was a bit incongruous for this neighborhood, which had gone upscale. She looked wet and tired, her back bent over so her face nearly rested on her chest. She smiled a toothless smile at him as he plucked a bouquet from a jam jar and handed her a ten pound note.

“Bless you sir,” she croaked, as he hurried away. 

Well. He'd better not let _that_ get back to the main office. But, he supposed, Aziraphale would approve.

Crowley knocked on Aziraphales’s door. The flowers were going a bit wilty. He felt less like the most handsome devil that Hell could produce, which was what he actually was, and more like a lovesick human, which was how he was behaving. But there he stood, helpless in the face of love.

Aziraphale opened the door, looking surprised to see him, standing there, like a supplicant before a king. Crowley saw the questioning look in his eye as Aziraphale took the flowers, put them in a vase of water and set them on the windowsill. He put the fish away in the small squat fridge in his tiny kitchen. He went to pour them drinks, a scotch for Crowley, neat. Aziraphale knew what he liked, knew his tastes and habits. Crowley came up behind Aziraphale as he fixed himself a gin and tonic and put his arms around him. He buried his face in the back of Aziraphale’s neck, inhaled his dusty smell of books and genteel frustration. He started rubbing the angel’s tense shoulders, then kissing them, pressing himself against Aziraphale’s backside. He wanted him, needed him, now. Dinner could wait.

Crowley led Aziraphale to the bedroom and undressed him slowly, his eyes half lidded with desire, his cock standing straight out in front of him. And yes, this was what he needed - a deep guttural need. Aziraphale’s mouth opening to take his tongue, his creamy, full bottocks in his hands, the sweat on the back of his neck, his cock in his fist, the deep pleasure of fucking him hard, driving out all thought, all worry. Aziraphale came with a strangled cry that instantly pushed Crowley over the edge. And then they lay together, bathed in each other’s sweat, while the scent of lemon balm and lavender filled the room.

“What’s wrong?” said Aziraphale at last.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re upset about something. I can tell.”

“How can you tell?”

Aziraphale traced his sweaty shoulder with a finger. “I can always tell,” he said.

Crowley rolled over, away from Aziraphale, and put his hands behind his head. He looked up at the ceiling, old plaster with a number of interesting cracks. “I was at a staff meeting today,” he said. He wanted a cigarette, but Aziraphale wouldn’t let him smoke in the house. “Just a routine meeting it was supposed to be, nothing out of the ordinary. But. Well.” Crowley hesitated.

“Yes?” Aziraphale’s face was completely neutral.

“We’ve been reported.”

“Reported?”

“You and me,” said Crowley grimly. “Our…... arrangement.”

“Who… ?” said Aziraphale, lines tensing on his forehead. “How?”

“That leprechaun. The one we met on our hike.”

“O’Leary?”

“That’s it!” Crowley snapped his fingers. “I couldn’t remember his name.”

“I remember everyone’s name,” said Aziraphale glumly. “I’m an angel. I thought you two were such great friends.”

“Well, so did I, but apparently…. Not really. Slimy little green bastard!” Crowley added with feeling. “Never trust a leprechan! Opportunists, the lot of them! Anyway, I think I glossed it over.”

“How, pray tell, did you do that?”

“Told them I was seducing you. Corrupting an angel and all that.” Crowley studied his nails. “I thought it went over rather well.”

“Maybe we should stop seeing each other so much,” said Aziraphale. “You _have_ been coming round an awful lot lately.”

Crowley was worrying at a hangnail that had suddenly appeared in his thumb. He winced slightly at the tiny needle of pain.

“No,” he said, not looking at Aziraphale.

“No?”

“No,” said Crowley. “No, that’s not what I want.” He got up, his lean perfect body silhouetted against the light coming in from the window. He felt Aziraphale’s eyes on him, watching him from the bed. Crowley looked out on the chilly November night, remembering the previous night in the boat, bathed by the balmy trade winds of the Bahamas.

“Why not?” said Aziraphale, lightly.

Crowley sighed. He had been avoiding this particular conversation for hundreds of years. He knew he should come clean but something held him back. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself what it was. It was cold, hard fear.

He picked up his phone from the dresser where he had set it down. It was blowing up. There was some crisis in the White House, brought on by Trump’s buffoonery. Crowley sighed again. Trump made it so easy. Where was the challenge?

“For heaven’s sake,” said Aziraphale with irritation. “Stop fiddling with that blasted thing.”

“Sorry,” said Crowley, putting down his phone hastily.

Aziraphale was still looking at him, with those deep blue, angelic eyes, filled with the love of heaven itself. How could Crowley resist the pull of that love? He decided to compromise. He took a deep breath in. He felt as if he were about to dive into ice cold water.

“I want…. I need.…. “ he started, flummoxed.

Aziraphale got up and went over to him. Put his arms around him. Crowley felt enveloped by his warmth, his angelic goodness. Crowley supposed it was wrong to want all that love for himself, but that was the truth of it. He sighed against the angel’s shoulder, felt his whole body relax into the rightness of being held by him.

“It’s …. Difficult times,” said Aziraphale softly.

“Yes!” Crowley agreed, tightening his grip around the angel's waist. This was it. His way out of his dilemma. “I just… I need to see you more often, right now, all right?”

Aziraphale pulled back, raised his chin and studied his face. Crowley could feel the angel’s gaze on him, intelligent and questioning.

“I … don’t like the way the world is going,” said Crowley, looking into those clear, probing eyes. “The balance is veering off and there’s trouble ahead. And…... I've been enjoying spending more time together.”

“Me too,” said Aziraphale so softly it was almost a whisper and when he bent to kiss him, his lips were so soft, so warm, so tender. Crowley felt the love welling up inside him, unstoppable, undeniable. He kissed Aziraphale back, and for a long time, that was all there was, two supernatural creatures, trapped in the timelessness of love.

“Angel,” breathed Crowley, when at last they broke apart.

“You’re….ineffable,” Aziraphale responded, stroking, his cheek. ”Shall we cook the fish?”

So they dressed slowly, and went back to their cocktails and their dinner. The fish was really very good. The flowers in the window were no longer wilting. They looked out on the chilly November night and glowed softly, as if lit from within.


End file.
